Nocturne
by AnnieXMuller
Summary: It was just ten days into their burgeoning relationship when she first caught a glimpse of Castle's nocturnal habits. A little fluff to ease the pain of 'Target'.


It was just ten days into their burgeoning relationship when she first caught a glimpse of Castle's nocturnal habits.

Unsure of the cause, something pulls her from sleep; her bleary eyes focus on the empty mattress beside her, a little bemused to find her hand curled around the sheet, holding on to the space his sleeping form had occupied.

She sits up, listens, and through the darkness she hears it: the gentle clicking of keys from the room beyond his bedroom. Clad in nothing but a t-shirt she has borrowed from his closet, last night's events not planned in advance, she pads softly to his study, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the frame. She rests her shoulder and the side of her head against the smooth wood, and quietly watches him. Hunched over his desk, in just his boxers, he sits in the darkened room, just a lamp softly illuminating his desk, typing furiously. She smiles, biting on her lower lip as she watches him work.

"Staring is creepy," he says quietly, his eyes still fixed on the screen, but his lips curling up into a smile.

She ducks her head, a sheepish smile forming on her own lips.

He taps one final key, and then meets her eyes. "I had to get this out of my head," he explains. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't," she assures him. "Nikki?" She asks.

"Her voice is always a little clearer in the dead of night. I'm sorry," he apologizes again. "Three AM has a habit of leading me here. I should have warned you."

She shakes her head at him, at the silly words leaving his lips. "No, it's fine, Castle. I often wondered if your nights were like this."

He stands and joins her at the door. His hands rest on her elbows, and he kisses her forehead sweetly, his lips lingering on her skin, not yet ready to pull back. She closes her eyes and inhales his scent as his lips brush her skin. She loves this man.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to hers. "Go back to sleep," he whispers.

She frames his face with her hands, her fingertips grazing his cheeks, the roughened stubble on his jaw beneath her palms. Her lips capture his, a slow, languid exploration of open mouths, lips, and tongues. His hands tug his shirt up her thighs, until his fingers travel over her hips to find the soft, pliant flesh of her waist, and he brings her body closer to his, her lower half naked and pressed to his thin cotton boxers.

Were his mouth not on hers she might be chuckling at him, at how easily she can distract him, but her humor turns to arousal and she moans softly into his mouth; he rubs against her, the thin boxers no match for his need for her. She breaks the kiss then, her breath hot against his ear as she reminds him breathlessly, "You should be writing."

"It can wait," he replies, his voice thick, laden with need as he leads her back into the bedroom. He has Kate Beckett before him, shimmying back along the bed, tugging his t-shirt over her head, her eyes beckoning to him behind long lashes, her tongue licking full, parted lips he craves to taste once more.

She holds his gaze, reaches for him, and pulls his long, solid form down between her splayed legs. She might have been feeling a little jealous of Nikki; she isn't anymore.

* * *

By Christmas she has forced herself to remain in the bed, whether his or hers. The cold, the loss of him next to her, wakes her in the middle of winter blizzards. Two, three, four AM. Her body senses he is no longer at her side, and pulls her from sleep. She has awoken, more times than she'll care to admit, to find herself draped over his empty side of the bed, her hand clutching his pillow, breathing in his scent. How many times has he walked in to check she is still asleep to find her in such a position. He is yet to mention it; she might kick his ass if he does, fervently deny all knowledge of such events occurring, and while blushing a deep crimson she will duck her head to hide her love.

When she awakes, alone, she listens. In her apartment, she can't hear him. He's behind a couple of doors, tucked up in her office, scribbling on a pad he keeps on her desk. But she knows he's there, so she leaves him be. At his apartment, she listens to the clicking of keys. The gentle, slow taps as he struggles with a sentence, the furious typing as the words flow with ease. She loves his mind, the way it drags him away, forces him to get the words out so he can fall back to sleep. The books she has read, she often wondered how many sunrises he had watched out his office window, typing as the room grew lighter, warmer, another chapter completed as a new day begins.  
She eases back to her side, and falls back to sleep, her body a little warmer knowing he is nearby.

* * *

Summer rolls around again, and her nights are always spent with him. Keys have been traded, closets have sides now, and drawers have sole owners. When she gazes around her apartment now she sees a place they occasionally share, but not the home it once was. Her time here, in this place she had made her own, now has a time limit, an ending drawing closer. Suggestions have been made, always laced with humor, but she knows she will give in. He will ask her to move into the loft in that low tone so full of love, with serious eyes locked on her apprehensive ones, and that day she won't laugh it off. That day her bag will already be packed.

* * *

He closes his laptop one evening, and sweeps his palms across the top. His silent way of saying, 'I will not answer your call tonight. Tonight I am hers alone.' And she shakes her head at him as she pauses at his desk, on her way to enter their bedroom, because she knows he will fail. And she doesn't care. He is the writer, he is the one who falls asleep with a head full of words, and he is the one who awakes with the skills to get them out in ways that amaze her daily.

She slips her hand into his, and squeezes. He must never change; she loves him - and all his quirks - too much.

Some evenings she lets him be, the sounds of the keyboard lulling her back to sleep; some evenings she pads into the room, her eyes communicating he needs a little salacious inspiration, and leads him back to bed. And some evenings, when his mouth is a tight line of frustration, when the frown lines are etched too deep between his eyes, she slips past him and into the kitchen. She quietly prepares a mug of coffee, with the nutmeg she now knows he loves; she returns to the study, warm mug in hand, and places it silently on the desk beside him. Her lips brush his cheek, and the lines on his face smooth.

His hand squeezes back. "Love you," she murmurs, before she slips her hand out of his, and leaves him alone, in his study, where he'll tap out a period as the sun rises on a new day.

* * *

**_AN: Dedicated to the Facebook gals who help me find elusive words, inspire me, and give me the little nudges I need. I wonder how I ever wrote a fic without them._**


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